


Soft Unspoken Sounds

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, If anyone needs me I'll be in my garbage heap, but it's emotional smut, it's smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6329737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they kiss is also the first time they sleep together. It's hurried. It's desperate. It's as soft as it is rough. Neither one of them says so, but it smacks very much of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Unspoken Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> This fic sprouted from a much shorter, makeout only version in my first Kastle fic, which you can read here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6326860

The first time he kisses her, she initiates it. He’s got her seated on a workbench in the shed where he evidently stores his arsenal, stitching up a small gash in her arm that she’d rather not explain to a hospital. His face is inches from hers when she admits to herself, finally, that it’s not the pinching pain of the stitches that has her heart hammering in her chest, her breath coming a little fast, a little shallow.

When he’s done, he looks up at her. His hand is still on her arm. And he’s  _right there_ , with those searching eyes and that little duck of his head that he does when someone looks too far into them. As he looks away from her, she catches his face in her hand. Stubble scratches at her palm. She turns him back to her. Leans in a little.

“Frank,” she starts, I—”

And then his mouth is on hers.

 His mouth is on hers and her arms are around him and his back, his shoulders, are filling up her slender hands and one of his is behind her, setting aside his needle and thread on the windowsill, and the other is pressed into the small of her back to support her as he leans down into her.

He kisses like he talks, hard, urgent, but he lets her break away and come back with smaller, softer, gentler kisses—a few of them before she bites into his lip and his free hand tangles in her hair. And then strokes it down. He holds her face in his enormous, calloused hand, so warm against her cheek. He smells like antiseptic and something sharp—gunmetal.

She wraps her legs around him and his other hand finds her thigh, his lips her cheek, her jaw, her neck. She lets her head fall back as he presses kiss after hungry kiss against her throat, palm cradling the base of her skull.

His thumb rubs abstract little patterns through her hair.

Karen knots her fingers in his shirt.

His hand slips up her thigh, drags at her skirt—putting more wrinkles in the tight fabric than bending her knees already had—and slides up to her shirt. And into it. His hand slipping between the buttons. A knuckle running up her stomach. It tickles, and she shivers. And pulls his shirt over his head. He has to release her for a moment as she does, and when his hands return to her, it’s to undo her every button, to reach up under her open shirt and snake his massive hands around the subtle curve of her waist, yanking her blouse free of the waistband of her skirt as he goes.

She pulls his face back down to hers.

His rough face, his hard face. The expression so desperate—so soft. He kisses her as if to devour her, to drink her away like water he’s discovered in the desert, and she grips his bare hips to assure him she’s not a mirage.

His body isn’t soft. The muscles moving and flexing in her palms are hard and unforgiving, the skin between her and them rough with scars. There are stitches in his left shoulder. She traces the damage he’s suffered like a history, like tree rings, as he pulls her blouse down around her shoulders. He bends low to plant kisses along her collarbone, and she turns her face into his hair and breathes him. Long inhalations punctuated by a gasp as his teeth close for a moment across her shoulder. A brief moment. She runs her hands up his chest, along the slope of his broad shoulders, and up the back of his neck. His shorn-short hair is soft against her moving hand, prickly when she stills. She presses his lips against the marble skin of her chest, so smooth compared to his.

He grips her waist hard. The pressure of his fingers each the epicenter of an earthquake that flutters the rhythm of her racing heart. He is not gentle. He is not careful—not with her. His care, where it shows, is for himself. Seconds of hesitation before he once again finds her mouth. Before a hand slips past the hem of her skirt, and under it. Before a roaming finger draws a gasp from her that ends with his lower lip between her teeth. His hesitation is something like amazement, a fascination with the way he can move her—she wonders how the pressure of her nails on his biceps moves _him_ as she lays back and presses her skull into the windowsill, the only way to brace herself so that she might vent the need to raise and arch her back, to move into him as his hand moves into her.

She swears, and it seems to shake his hesitation. He laughs, as if the filth on her lips were somehow incongruous, and bends to kiss it away. Bends over her, pressing her into the bench. His hand shifts beneath her skirt, and she cusses again, against his lips, and says his name.

And he says hers. As if he’s sampling it. Softly, the way he always speaks to her, all gravel and gruff but so low, so quiet, that it echoes in her soul.

*

She undoes his belt buckle with her skirt around her waist, the cups of her bra pulled low on her breasts, the straps sliding down her arms so that the memory of his kisses and the shadows of his teeth can better paint her fragile shoulders. He lets her undress him, breath a low and ragged roar that only makes her want to kiss him, which she does, while her hands work over the new terrain of the V of his hips, the musculature of his thighs with slow explorations that make him shudder. The Punisher. Shivering against her mouth.

He makes her feel so strong.

She pulls him inside her—or maybe he pulls her into him, because he makes a low sound in his throat that might have been a gasp, become a choke, and he has to plant one hand on the workbench behind her. The other presses his fingerprints into her thigh, and she’s reminded how easily they could break each other; albeit in such different ways. She kisses him. Hard. A relentless kiss, trying to tell him something her brain can’t form the words for, still using her lips. His reply is every bit as unforgiving. Her lips will be swollen after this. They ache as he presses his mouth against hers, as she peels them apart to let a breathless sound escape because he’s moving in her, now, and it’s all she can do to breathe.

Karen wraps her legs around him, and her arms. Clutches the back of his head. Feels his spine whisper against her palm. The muscles in his back are so pronounced that they rise up on either side of it, the highest point of her bony back a canyon in his. She traces it with her fingers. Leaves scratches in places, wounds he may not even feel, to anchor herself as her head falls back and his breath falls hot and loud across her ear. She runs her tongue along his and he groans. There’s so much more breath behind it than the sounds that are coming from her. She is airless, heavy, sinking in around him, clutching him against every inch of her body, curling around his with a kiss planted on his shoulder, her hand moving into the longer part of his hair, so dark around her pale fingers. She stays there, tied to him, arched around him, pulling him into her with every limb and every finger, breathing his name between curses and weak sounds that drive him on harder, faster, rougher and more desperate until the pitch of her voice falters to airless nothing and then; and then an almost-scream.

*

He collapses against her. Lays her down against the workbench with his weight, his hand slipping from her thigh to wrap around her waist. He snakes both arms around her and falls into her with his face pressed into the crook of her neck, breathing hard, the rise of his chest a welcome pressure against hers. He stays there a long time. Minutes. And she turns and presses kisses into his hair, begging him to stay, though she knows she doesn’t need to. Because it’s him that’s begging her, in his own silent way.

“I’m here,” she whispers. His response is low and rough.

“I know.”

She reaches for his face, runs fingertips along his cheek and pulls him to face her by his chin.

She kisses him hard enough to break the both of them.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Since this isn't the link I have on my description, I'd just like to note again that you can join me in the kastle-specific garbage bin at http://queensofthekastle.tumblr.com/.


End file.
